Move to Strike (45 page)

‘You want to strike Mrs Baker because she is a mom?'

‘No, Your Honour,' said David, knowing very well that his argument was weak.

‘Because if that is the case we will have to strike half the female population of Massachusetts.'

Kessler was right – but David was desperate to find a way around it. ‘But Your Honour, Mrs Baker, like the victim, has a son and a daughter and . . .'

‘Rubbish,' said Kessler, shaking her head before turning to Mrs Baker. ‘Mrs Baker, I am pleased to inform you, you shall be joining us as juror
number thirteen in the total group of sixteen. Please be aware that you will not know whether you will be named as one of the four alternates until the end of the trial.'

Kessler was referring to the ‘lottery' system employed when whittling down a jury to the final dozen. It was believed that if the alternates were named in advance of the proceedings then they would not listen as intently as the original ‘chosen twelve'. But if each of the sixteen did not know whether or not they would be literally pulled out of the barrel as an alternate, they would all concentrate on the evidence equally.

‘Well, you made a dog's breakfast out of that one,' said Phyll, as David returned to his seat.

‘Thanks for the encouragement, Phyll,' said David.

‘I'm not here to stroke your ego, pretty boy,' she returned as Kessler called their next prospective juror – another of the group Phyll had nicknamed the ‘Macy's Sale Parade'.

Two hours later, as the clock struck five, the sixteenth and final juror – a single father by the name of Nick Mandel – joined the mostly female group now sitting in the jury box at the far right-hand side of the room. And as Judge Kessler proceeded to swear them in – briefing them on what to expect during the course of a trial, reviewing their responsibilities and thanking them in advance for the role they were about to play – David looked at Phyll who met his eye to say: ‘You're fucked.'

‘Well at least you're consistent, Phyll,' said a now exhausted David.

‘No, that's not what I meant,' said Phyll, collecting her things as the judge began to rise. ‘Yesterday you were fucked but today you got screwed over big time.'

‘Jesus, Phyll,' he said, collecting his briefcase at his feet before glancing across at Amanda Carmichael who could barely contain a smile.

Then he saw it – what Phyll was referring to. And he realised just exactly how ‘fucked' he was.

‘She chose our jurors,' said David as he stormed into Arthur's office, an equally as fired-up Phyll behind him.

‘What?' asked an obviously confused Arthur, rising from his desk.

‘Carmichael – she gave preference to the type of juror we would have been favouring if we didn't know what we did.'

‘Slow down, son,' said Arthur, gesturing for them both to join him on the sofa and accompanying armchairs as Nora entered the room. But David was set on pacing.

‘We know what Logan is up to,' he said. ‘But if we didn't, if we thought he had his children's best interests at heart, we would have done everything we could have to make sure that jury was filled with women sympathetic to the Logans' cause. We would have
wanted
Logan fans – women who watch his show every day and, as Phyll rightly pointed out, live and die by his advice. Because that way they would have voted for
his
camp – or
our
camp – the one that was determined to set those children free.

‘But we
do
know what he is up to. We know he wants his kids incarcerated and we also know that eventually we are going to go after him. So we can't favour Doctor Jeff fans because they are the ones who are going to hate us for turning the tables and gunning for him.'

‘Okay,' said Arthur. ‘I follow you so far.'

David nodded. ‘Then why is Carmichael favouring the jurors who can only hinder her case? She should be choosing the ones who don't give a crap about the famous psychotherapist, because they are less likely to be swayed by sympathy to Jeffrey Logan, and as a flow-on, to his two kids.'

‘Carmichael has spent the entire day favouring stay-at-home moms?' asked Arthur, now truly confused.

‘Think Carol Brady times sixteen,' said Phyll, before pointing towards Arthur's corner fridge. She had worked with Arthur and David long enough to know the fridge was always stocked with cold Australian beers. Arthur nodded.

‘The ADA was sucking up to those housewives like there was no tomorrow,' Phyll went on. ‘And sadly she got what she obviously wanted – sixteen jurors of which ten are women and seven of those with kids. It was like a Tupperware party in there today, Arthur, except the only thing they were selling was their devotion to your favourite celebrity shrink.'

‘But why?' asked Arthur. ‘Why the hell would a savvy young prosecutor like Carmichael be filling the jury box with Logan sympathisers?'

‘Because he is going to sell out those poor children in public.' It was Nora, from just inside the door.

David nodded as Arthur met his eye.

‘You think Logan has offered to be a witness for the prosecution?' asked Arthur, not believing what he was hearing.

‘It certainly explains Carmichael's strategy,' said David.

‘But why would he? Surely any desertion of his children will be professional suicide on his part.'

‘Not if he paints his actions as a hard decision for their benefit,' said David, ‘. . . if he says they need to be incarcerated, so they can be treated and kept safely away from the public while their lengthy psychiatric treatment is carried out.'

‘You really think this guy is brave enough to go public with a flip like that?'

‘I think this guy believes he is invincible – that his masses are so loyal that they will swallow whatever crap he chooses to dish out. And worse, Arthur, I think he might be right.'

There was silence.

‘But how can you be sure, lad?' asked Nora. ‘Doctor Logan is not on the original witness list Ms Carmichael faxed to us earlier this week.'

‘She's delaying the addition,' said David. ‘My guess is she'll want him to come last – play him as the powerful sympathetic back-up to her iron-clad evidentiary case. She will start by submitting the irrefutable facts as presented by the police, the ME, the forensics experts and the FBI and then, just when she has all those loyal Doctor Jeff devotees torn between voting with their sense or their sensibilities, she will clinch their guilty votes by getting the children's father to tell them it is
okay
to put his kids away.'

Arthur shook his head, in part realisation, part disgust. ‘What do you think, Phyll?' he asked, turning to their savvy jury expert.

‘I think your boy is spot on, but you'd be in a much better position if you knew what Doctor Asshole was planning for sure.'

‘Well,' said Arthur, taking a beer from Phyll before moving to the corner cabinet to pour Nora a sherry. ‘I am afraid that is impossible, Phyll. You see, there is no way in hell Logan is going to let us in on his strategy.'

David stopped pacing, before moving towards Phyll, taking a cold green bottle from her hand and unscrewing the lid so that he might down the bottle's contents in one almighty swallow.

‘We don't need Logan to confirm it,' he said, taking a breath before placing the empty bottle on Arthur's desk.

‘Then . . . how . . . who . . . ?' began Nora.

‘Amanda Carmichael,' he said, before grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. ‘It's her legal obligation to disclose all witnesses on her list – and if she thinks she can avoid that responsibility . . . well, I think it's about time I set the woman straight.'

It was raining when he left the office – a heavy, hot summer downpour that made the air thick with humidity. He decided to walk, knowing that at this hour on a Friday night he would be faster on foot than in his LandCruiser. He had tried Sara at home, but the line was engaged, so he'd left a message saying he was held up (he found himself stopping short before telling her he was on his way to Amanda Carmichael's apartment), and would be home within the hour.

He thought the walk might calm him, but if anything it was revving him up – his wet shirt now sticking to his skin as he made his way in and out of the umbrella-toting Friday night crowd. It was as if he existed in his own private cocoon, like a leading character in some high tension movie, locked in a world where the people around him were moving in slow motion, their voices muffled, their footsteps soundless, their smiles blurs as he focused on nothing but the inevitable task ahead.

He reached the waterfront and saw Amanda's building soaring like a glass palace before him. Tony had told him months ago that Amanda had bought a condo in the impressive new Residences at the Intercontinental, and as he entered the prestigious Atlantic Avenue address, he immediately tried to find someone who could direct him to her apartment somewhere up above.

‘My name is David Cavanaugh and I am here to see Amanda Carmichael,' he said when he reached the front desk. ‘She owns one of the condos here.'

Within minutes the helpful staff were escorting him to a private elevator – the doorman having made a whispering phone call to Carmichael who, David guessed, was wondering why in the hell her number one opponent was paying her a house call late on a Friday night.

‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,' she said, standing in the doorway of her tenth floor apartment with a glass of white wine in her hand. She was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans with a ribbed white cotton singlet. Her
hair was down and fell in thick blonde layers around her make-up-free face, her feet were bare and David was sure she was braless.

‘We need to talk,' he said, meeting her at the door. The carpet was thick beneath his feet, that new hotel smell lingering fresh and sweet in the air.

‘Come in,' she said, flattening her back against the door so that he could enter the dimly lit apartment. She followed him into the living room, allowing the door to squeeze silently shut behind her until the barely audible click of the lock acted as a trigger for David to finally say his piece.

‘What the hell are you up to?' he said, turning from the breathtaking harbour view to face her.

‘Excuse me?'

‘The past two days – in jury selection – why were you choosing jurors perfect for the defence?'

‘That's a good question, Counsellor,' she said, taking a step towards him, ‘. . . almost as good as the one I could ask you regarding your decision to challenge those very same jurors – the ones any half-assed jury expert would have been advising
you
to favour. Don't forget that I know Phyllis Vecchio, David, and there is nothing half-assed about that woman whatsoever.'

‘Stop avoiding the question, Amanda,' David said, taking a step forward himself. ‘I know what the hell you are up to, but I just want to hear it from . . .'

‘How dare you,' she interrupted him then, placing her wine on a side table as she made the final steps to reach him. ‘How dare you come into my home and tell me how I can or cannot run my case. Do you think I am completely stupid, David? Do you think you could come over here and strut your stuff and convince me to give away my entire game plan just because I used to be attracted to you? You may be a good-looking man, David, but . . .'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' he said, cutting her off before pacing determinedly back towards the window.

‘You think
I'm
being ridiculous?' She shook her head, the gesture making her long blonde locks sway behind her shoulders. ‘I am not the one who walked halfway across town in the dark and the rain to knock on my
opponent's Goddamned door. Does your girlfriend know you are here, David? Does she know you are standing dripping wet in my apartment begging me to tell you what I know?'

There was silence as David turned to meet her eye once again, the illumination from the city now bouncing off the harbour and filling the apartment with light.

‘You're playing with fire, Amanda,' he said. She went to open her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand in protest. ‘Let me finish,' he said. ‘Jeffrey Logan is a sociopath. He is a manipulative megalomaniac who is – whether you want to believe it or not – trying to control your case.' And then he saw it, the slightest twitch in her left eye.

‘He wants to see his children incarcerated – in fact, that has been his plan all along – and he will do anything, including using you as his conduit, to get his way.'

‘The boy shot his mother, David,' she replied with exasperation, but David knew at least some of the fight had gone out of her.

‘Did he?' asked David, moving back towards her. ‘Then why doesn't he have a dislocated shoulder where that cannon of a rifle would have rested when he blew his mother in two?' He was saying too much, but something told him he could reach her, if only he could . . .

‘No.' She began taking a step backwards.

‘J.T. may have had his finger against that trigger, Amanda, but someone else was pushing him – someone older, stronger.'

‘But the forensic evidence . . .' she began.

‘. . . is covering up the truth,' he finished. ‘Someone else was behind him, using him as a shield. The man is a psychopath, Amanda. He has a desperate need to control people, to take them, consume them, suck them dry and spit them out.'

‘Stop it,' she said, retreating once again. ‘You shouldn't be telling me this, David.'

But David was determined. ‘He controls people, Amanda – he slinks in with his fancy credentials and movie star looks and before you know it you are doing exactly what he wants you to do. But you are smarter than that, Amanda. Your father – he was a working-class Joe who fought his way through the system to become one of the most respected legal minds in this country – what do you think he would say about you bending to
some celebrity asshole simply because he swears he can hand you your guilty verdict on a silver platter?'